Nobody's Angel
by Ellis McGuinn
Summary: Tish gets a makeover; wacky high-jinks ensue. Hackneyed? Yes. Sorta dumb? Yes. Why? Because I can. I hope to give it my own touch, though, so please read and tell me what you think.
1. Default Chapter

"Again." Tish's voice was cold and raspy. She was slumped over on the couch to such a degree that the tip of her perfect chin was touching her collarbone. Her eyes were half closed, her fists were clenched, and one rebellious foot stood proud on the coffee table, openly defying common courtesy, daring with its untied laces anyone to challenge it.  
  
In sharp contrast, the Tish on the television was sweet past saying. Her skin was creamy, pale, and unblemished; her pastel pink lips formed a small, modest smile. She was painfully thin, so much so that Carver's fingers fit easily around her upper arm and her high cheekbones stood out like mountains in Kansas. Her legs and neck and arms and lashes were soft and long. And with the long, delicate, honey-colored ringlets that framed her heart-shaped face, she was anyone's idea of an angel.  
  
She had been altered a bit for the commercial, of course. Her hair wasn't really curly, and it wasn't really honey-colored. It was more the shade of an old, scruffy wooden table in need of refinishing. Angelic Tish was wearing icy blue contact lenses to hide the murky brown that her eyes really were, so her wire-rimmed spectacles had been scrapped. In accordance with her wishes, I poked the remote control's Play button again. As her on- screen persona turned and smiled for the umpteenth time, line-drying white sheets billowing behind her, Tish's dark eyes narrowed even more, and her fists clenched even tighter.  
  
"Dude?" asked Lor. "Why are you all, like, evil-looking?"  
  
"Oh, but I'm not!" Tish said in a dangerously crazed voice. She leapt nimbly up from the couch. Turning on us, she copied perfectly the beautiful smile that the screen was showing. "How could you call someone who can do that 'evil-looking?'" she inquired sarcastically. "I'm not evil-looking. I'm not evil-looking enough!"  
  
"Evil enough for what, exactly?" Carver ventured.  
  
With a melodramatic sigh, Tish rolled her eyes heavenward. "I've been acting since I was ten," she announced. "Six years! And in those six years, all I've EVER played are fairies, angels, and leukemia patients!"  
  
"Well," Lor said cheerfully, "that makes you a shoo-in for TV movies!"  
  
"For once," she said in a wistful tone, "I'd like to play a proper teenager role. A high school student torn between two boys. The daughter of a troubled single-mom drug addict. A prodigal musician. The cynical comic- relief best friend of one of the above. You know what I'm saying?"  
  
I raised my eyebrows. "A high school student torn between two boys?"  
  
"So long as she hasn't got leukemia."  
  
"Tish, you just have to play to your strengths," Carver told her, waving his hand dismissively, "and your strength is definitely angel. I mean, look in the mirror."  
  
"Yeah," Tish agreed sadly. "It's all to do with looks, isn't it?"  
  
I should have detected the danger in that comment. Unfortunately for us all, I didn't. 


	2. Waiting

"Dude," Lor said, her eyes wide with fascination over an ancient copy of Glamour magazine, "were you aware that wearing a shirt and belt that are the same color is a severe fashion no-no?"  
  
"Of course we were. Where have you been, under a rock or something?" He flipped a page in Cosmo. "Your belt matches your shoes and purse. Your shirt does not. Unless it's either an all-black or all-white ensemble. Not that, you know, I carry a purse or anything," he modified, shifting uncomfortably.  
  
Nearly oblivious to their conversation, I craned my head forward to see what the abnormally perky hairdresser was doing to poor Tish. She seemed to be talking passionately, gesticulating wildly despite the scissors in her hand. Her rather wide girth and nearly constant motion mostly obscured Tish. It looked like there was an awful lot of hair on the tiled floor.  
  
"Oh my gosh. They even have a quiz, so you can test your knowledge of basic fashion rules. Okay. True or false: panty lines are okay as long as you're wearing a skirt."  
  
Carver made a face. "So false!"  
  
"Correct. Next question, also true or false: stiletto heels are best worn with straight-leg pants."  
  
"True."  
  
"Correct again!" Lor squealed. "Leather pants are acceptable in daylight."  
  
"Leather pants are acceptable anytime."  
  
Finally, the Princess of Perk moved. Thank the heavens above. Tish wasn't going skinhead. The blow-dryer was plugged in, and our friend the non-angel was hidden once more.  
  
"Horizontal stripes."  
  
"It really depends. I think if they're narrow enough they can be gotten away with."  
  
"I don't know, Carver, the magazine says they're bad."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Right here, see? 'Horizontal stripes lend a sausagesque look to even the most sleek and feminine figure.' And it's true. That lady looks like some kind of stripy sausage."  
  
"Excuse me? 'That lady,' I'll have you know, is Tyra Banks, and if you ever call her a 'stripy sausage' again I may have to take action. I think she looks great in that shirt."  
  
"Hmph. Tino, what do you think?"  
  
I turned around. "Huh?"  
  
Both of them emphatically pointed to the picture in question. "Um, I don't really have a problem with horizontal stripes."  
  
"And would you say she looks 'sausagesque?'" Carver pressed.  
  
"No." I turned back around to check on Tish's progress.  
  
"Forgive her, Tyra," Carver cooed. "She doesn't know what she's talking about." And then Tish came. Her new hair reached to her chin and flipped outward dramatically. It was, in short, average-looking. And really bouncy. Tish is not a 'bouncy' person.  
  
"Um," I said, before realizing I had nothing to say.  
  
"Yeah, that's what I thought," she said viciously. "On to Step Two."  
  
I was afraid to ask. 


	3. Extra Crispy

Author's Note: Wow, I'm not updating this very often, am I? Sorry, I'm getting kind of into my Artemis Fowl fic (entitled "Sparks"--go read it!) But I'm considering a sequel to "Perfect." Trouble is, there's no end in sight for "Sparks," and I'm also considering another story, a Harry Potter/Artemis Fowl crossover that I can tell you right now would take me forever, and I kind of want to do an Avengers, and I think I'd get a kick out of writing South Park, but, um, you probably don't care. Oh well. Just letting y'all know.  
  
Disclaimer: I own neither The Weekenders (that's owned by Disney, that's why it's in the Disney section) nor Chester the Cheetah (who is owned by Chee-tos, and I'm sure Chee-tos is owned by someone else, but I don't know exactly whom, it's just not me). I'm not making any money here.  
  
In response to that review by Mr./Ms. Meteor: Yeah, it does. I mean, it is. Sorry, I didn't make that sufficiently clear.  
  
"Soo, how do I look?" Tish asked us, twirling gracefully.  
  
"Um, different. Once again." I answered.  
  
You know that cheese-o-meter that Chee-tos bags have, where Chester the Cheetah is yanking the lever down to "Dangerously Cheesy?" Right. If there was a tan-o-meter, Tish's lever would be past "Sunned," past "Golden- Brown," past "Tino," past "Well-Done," past even "Palm Beach," and right smack in the middle of "Extra Crispy."  
  
"Really, really dark," Carver contributed. He placed his forearm next to Tish's to compare. "Holy crap, girl," he commented, "you're almost there."  
  
"How did you do that, anyway? You didn't get in a cancer box, did you?" the fair and freckled Lor inquired, shuddering. "Cause, you know, they give you cancer." She giggled and started to sing. "Everythinnnnng. . .GIVES YOU CANCER!"  
  
Lor's singing, the uninformed should be told, is rumored to have knocked over an ox at sixty paces. We don't even let her sing "Happy Birthday." I could see Tish's eye twitching.  
  
"Okay, Lor, I think that's enough," the newly bronzed pedant told her, fairly civilly, all things considered. "It's all fake, so just relax."  
  
"Out of curiosity, Tish, how come you thought you needed a tan?" I asked her. "Tan, I'll have you know, does not equal evil."  
  
"No, it doesn't, Tino," she conceded serenely, "but pasty, it just screams, 'Angel!,' or possibly worse, 'Leukemia patient!' Healthy young women are always tanned."  
  
"If you say so," I said dubiously. "But I really don't think it'll make a difference."  
  
"Oh no?" she said, arching a marvelously-shaped brow. "On to step three, then."  
  
Oops. 


	4. Awkward Silences

Disclaimer: I still don't own The Weekenders. I also don't own The Miracle Bra. I believe Victoria's Secret does, or maybe that's Wonderbra; I'm not entirely sure what the distinction is. Once again, I don't know who does, but it sure isn't me!  
  
"'Glamourpuss Pizza?'" Carver asked, "What do you suppose they're doing now." He looked at Tish a bit funny, and his jaw dropped. "Tish," he said, "is that a Miracle Bra? You know, flatter is in right now."  
  
Tish looked imperious, and was about to say something when the usual waiter walked up. Or rather, toddled up. He was decked out in stiletto heels, a dress with a skirt so short it was probably illegal, a straight blonde wig, and a hot pink feather boa. And that was most definitely a Miracle Bra. He struck a pose, complete with sultry pout, and a series of flashes lit up our table. Eee. I don't like strobe lights. It was all I could do to not squeaky-scream.  
  
We all stared speechless for a moment. Finally, Lor broke the silence: "Dude," she said seriously, "flatter is in right now."  
  
"I like your shoes," Carver told him.  
  
He gave us a movie-star smile. "Thanks!" he exclaimed. "I'm really liking this theme so far. I might keep it this way."  
  
Awkward silence reigned once again.  
  
"Um, could we get a large pepperoni pizza, no meat on my part?" Tish averred.  
  
"Sure thing, duck," said the made-over pizza guy with a wink. He turned around with some difficulty and toddled back off.  
  
"I wonder if I could get a job here," Carver said.  
  
"Dude, you know you said that out loud, right?"  
  
"What?! No I didn't! I didn't say anything!"  
  
More of that awkward silence.  
  
"So, speaking of jobs--" Tish began.  
  
"We're not speaking of jobs! No one said anything about jobs!" Carver screeched.  
  
"Right. Either way, I got one."  
  
I looked up. "Really? Does your character have leukemia?" 


	5. A Wee Adventure in the Self Help Section

Disclaimer: I don't own the Weekenders, Kevyn Aucoin, Cher, Michael Jackson, or Barnes & Noble. I am a Reader's Advantage cardholder, though!  
  
Tish refused to tell us about her work. "You'll find out soon enough," she would say whenever one of us asked, looked at her, sneezed, checked our watches, etc.  
  
Operation Upgrade Tish continued in full swing, however. Step Four found our quartet perusing the "Health, Beauty, and Self-Help" section of the local Barnes & Noble.  
  
"Ooh, looky here," said Lor, "this girl's face is all pointy!" She picked up the volume in question. Its cover, which announced to the world that it was written by one Kevyn Aucoin, did appear to have a pointy-faced young lady on the cover. Flipping it open, Lor's face went white. She dropped the book, shrieked, and jumped backward, causing the Customer Service clerk to whirl around and give her a glare of pure malevolence. "Sorry," she whimpered with an apologetic wave to the scowling bookseller. "Jeez," she muttered as she turned back to us, "whatever happened to 'service with a smile'?"  
  
Tish did a dramatic eye-roll. "There's really no reason to scream," she reprimanded Lor.  
  
"Dude, did you see that lady?"  
  
Tish looked over at the book. "Relax," she said soothingly, "it's just Cher. Calm down."  
  
"She looks like an alien! And that dress--is that a dress?--whatever it is, it's butt-ugly."  
  
"She's not an alien. She's just had a little too much plastic surgery."  
  
"Like Michael Jackson?"  
  
I shuddered. "I think Michael Jackson really is an alien."  
  
"Oh my gosh," Carver interjected, his eyes wide, "what if Cher and Michael Jackson are the same person?"  
  
We all stared at each other for a few seconds.  
  
"Okay, that's just creepy," Tish said, throwing up her hands. "I don't even want to think about it."  
  
"Well, you know, all that plastic surgery," I said. "I suppose it's possible. Say, Tish, what do you think motivates a person to have doctors cut away at their nose and suck the fat out of their thighs and tighten the skin on their face?"  
  
I waited in vain for my allegory to hit home. Lor giggled, murmured "Fat sucking!" and made a loud sucking sound. The Customer Service guy gave her the evil eye again.  
  
"Okay, well, obviously Lor is going to get us kicked out of the bookstore pretty soon, so I suppose I'll have to hurry myself." With that, Tish began pawing in earnest through books. "Ah-ha!" she exclaimed eventually. "'Cosmetic perfection from head to toe,'" she read aloud from the cover of a purple book. "Yes. This will do nicely."  
  
Just then, we were approached by a guy about our age who looked to be one of the cool kids: not a hair out of place, and he was clearly a bit of a label-demimonde. Every last one of his garments bore the John Hancock of one designer or another.  
  
"Oh," he said with a disappointed look on his face. "You looked hot from far away." It wasn't exactly clear who he was talking to, but both Lor and Tish got the sort of fire in their eyes that means being with in a ten-foot radius is potentially deadly. Carver and I retreated quickly. They sputtered for a tick, and then, in perfect unison, with no rehearsal, roared "EXCUSE ME?!"  
  
This was the last straw for Mr. Customer Service. With a look of exasperation, he opened his mouth and was no doubt about to tell us to leave, but Tish beat him to the punch. "We're going! Back off!"  
  
We left the "Health, Beauty, and Self-Help" section behind, without a backward glance at either the boy who had enraged our female companions or the seething peon wearing the "How may I help you?" button. 


	6. It's What's on the Outside that Really C...

Author's Note: Sorry, out of town for Memorial Day weekend. Taking finals. Trying to get back into the swing of things.  
  
Carver and I sat at a small plastic table in the Bahia Bay Mall, idly slurping at Chug-A-Freezes. We'd both adopted the slumped-over, legs- splayed, slack-jawed posture of any guy who was bored, tired, bummed that the weekend was almost over, and reasonably certain that one or more of his best friends had gone completely around the bend. I was just starting to wonder whether I'd ever see Lor or Tish again when the former came sprinting up, seemingly oblivious to innocent bystanders, lightweight plastic furniture, and the squished and stinking chili-fry carcasses scattered hither and thither. She left quite a path of destruction in her wake.  
  
"You guys," she hissed at us, the knuckles of her bent fingers glowing white as she pressed them against the table, "are so in for it."  
  
As we sat up to defend ourselves, Tish somehow made her presence felt behind us. Exchanging a wary glance, Carver and I turned slowly around.  
  
Oh no.  
  
Her head was shaved. Her smooth, tanned skin had been scrubbed until it was streaky and scratched. The flattering clothes of yesterday had been forsaken in favor of an austere black dress. She looked, in short, like a Gregorian monk who had been rolling around in iodine.  
  
Her delicate lips quivered. "Why?" she demanded. "Why must men be such pigs?"  
  
Oh, not good. Not good at all.  
  
"'You looked hot from far away,'" she mimicked. "Women are not artwork for your personal viewing pleasure. We are not here to boost your ego. We are not here to boost your ego. We are not here to be housewives and secretaries and schoolteachers and prostitutes. Whether one wears horizontal stripes should not matter, because it should not matter whether one looks like a sausage. And furthermore," she continued, leaning close in to Carver's face, "remember this: ugliness is not a sin, but lust is."  
  
Carver made the very bad mistake of attempting to defend himself. "I didn't- -I never--" he sputtered.  
  
She pounced, sneering. "You didn't what? You never what? Say that ugliness was a sin? You did. You do. All the time. Every time you hold a girl to your outrageously impossible standards, and dismiss her with a disdainful wave of your hand, every time you make fun of Janet Reno, every time you disparage women's athletics, every time you stare openly at Cheri Montgomery's derriere, you imply it."  
  
"I do not stare openly at Cheri Montgomery's butt."  
  
"You know what they say about that river in Egypt?"  
  
"Ha."  
  
"Get your mind out of the gutter, you filthy lecher."  
  
I decided to break up this happy little exchange of words and ideas. "What exactly is it that you want from us, Tish?"  
  
"We want," Lor broke in, "to be loved for who we are and wanted because we're pretty."  
  
"I'm done with pretty. Look where trying to achieve it gets you. It gets you complete strangers at a bookstore telling you that you look hot from far away."  
  
What would Mom say, what would Mom say? "It's what's on the inside that really counts."  
  
This earned me an eye-roll. "Tino, my ignorant and naïve young lecher-in- training, that's a load of utter crap and you know it."  
  
It was, and I did. But I didn't know what else to say. 


	7. Tish Proposes an Experiment

Author's Note: Wow, this has gotten weird. A girl writing a story about newly converted practically-militant feminism from the perspective of a teenaged boy. The moral of the story, kids, is a.) don't write yourself into a corner, and b.) once you have, don't hurl yourself off an impulsive plot cliff.  
  
Disclaimer: Once again, I don't own anything.  
  
I tried again. "Look, Tish," I said exasperatedly, "I didn't do it, okay? Neither did Carver. It was just some guy at the bookstore. There's no need to be mad at us. We're your friends."  
  
"Preach it, brother!" Carver seconded. "Amen!"  
  
Tish stopped sucking on her vanilla non-dairy shake and treated us to a regal sniff. "It's the principle of the thing. It makes no difference that you weren't the perpetrators of that particular offense, because this is about so much more. You have to look at the big picture, you have to--"  
  
Carver made a derisive noise. I cringed and waited for the explosion.  
  
"There is no big picture here, Tish. This is all you. You, mutilating yourself in an effort to achieve God-knows-what, and then taking it out on half the world's population."  
  
"Men actually make up somewhat less than half of the human population. I suppose now you'll use that as an argument to justify polygamy."  
  
"Gosh, Tish, I didn't hear you complaining when you got hired over girls who looked like horses. How much do you suppose acting ability really has to do with actresses' success? Or, for that matter, singers' success? What other possible explanation is there for Britney Spears and Avril Lavigne?"  
  
Wait, wait. Why was Avril getting dragged into this? "Hey now," I said warningly.  
  
"Ah, yes. Britney and Avril. The successful women we all love to hate," Tish contributed, dripping sarcasm.  
  
"Dude," said Lor, "I'm totally with you on the whole looks-shouldn't-be- everything thing, but Avril Lavigne is a menace to society and you know it."  
  
"Hey now," I repeated.  
  
"Delusional teeny-boppers aside," Carver went on, "you were reaping the societal benefits of being a pretty girl before you decided you wanted the societal benefits of being movie-star pretty. Just because you tried and failed is no reason to get mad at me. I'm not going to apologize to you for being male."  
  
"My career should not hinge on my looks."  
  
"Too bad, sugar," Carver drawled, leaning back in his plastic chair, hands behind his head, "that's the way the cookie crumbles. There's nothing you can do about it, so your best bet is to settle for reasonably comely and be happy with your place in life."  
  
Tish's right hand went to brush back the hair that was no longer there behind her ear. "It still isn't fair," she said softly, aware that she was losing this argument.  
  
"Nope," said Carver affably from his reclined position.  
  
"Who says that toned and tanned is beauty, anyway?" asked our lovely pedantic monk-doppelganger buddy, her tone of voice escalating. "If two hundred years ago Rubenesque was sexy, who says ashen and skeletal can't come into style? Tino," she commanded, "tell me: what exactly makes beauty beauty?"  
  
For the second time in ten minutes, I needed my mom. I couldn't think of anything to say.  
  
"I propose an experiment."  
  
Carver lurched, upending his chair. Lor was laughing at him so hard she spilled cherry-flavored Chug-A-Freez on his face. Tish maintained a quiescent calm that filled me with a sense of awful foreboding. 


End file.
